Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  The cutter closed the distance with remarkable speed. As it got to within one hundred yards, Jonathan thought that maybe they were going to be rammed. Apparently, Davey thought so, too, because he braced himself against the wall of the cockpit.

  Then the cutter skidded to a halt, if that was even possible in water. Its sudden deceleration launched a massive wave, which engulfed the SeaVee, raising it high out of the water and then down again into a trough, leaving them rocking precariously from side to side.

  “That was a shitty thing to do,” Jesse said.

  “Shitty people do shitty things,” Davey said.

  Within a minute, the cutter launched a smaller boat that looked remarkably like the SeaVee and carried four heavily armed men in green digital camouflage uniforms. They kept their rifles at low ready and approached slowly.

  “Ahoy,” one of them said through a megaphone. “You appear to be in distress.”

  “No one say anything,” Jonathan said softly. He wasn’t going to engage in shouting to a man with a megaphone. When they got closer, they could parley.

  Ten seconds later, the two vessels were nearly touching. “Good afternoon,” said the presumed man in charge. “I am Lieutenant Oscar Cuervo of the Mexican navy. Are you in distress?” His English was perfect.

  “A little out of your area of operation, aren’t you, Lieutenant?” Jonathan asked.

  “Some might say so,” Cuervo said. “But it is called the Gulf of Mexico, is it not?”

  “Interesting point.”

  “What’s wrong with that boy over there?” As Cuervo pointed to Tomás, Angela drew him closer.

  “That young man is not feeling well,” Jonathan said.

  “It looks like he needs a doctor.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Jonathan said. He deliberately did not look toward Boxers, because he could feel the negative energy emanating through his pores.

  “And what about you, boy?” Cuervo said, pointing to Leo and his bandage.

  “He’s fine, too,” Jonathan said.

  “Perhaps I should come aboard and take a look myself,” the lieutenant suggested.

  “I’d prefer that you stay right where you are,” Jonathan said.

  Cuervo eyed him with a predatory glare. The dick-knocking contest had begun. “Who are these children?”

  “They are none of your concern.”

  Cuervo pointed to Leo again. “You,” he said. “What is your name?”

  Leo took a step backward. Sophia stepped forward and pressed him behind her.

  Cuervo redirected his aim to Santiago. “You, boy. Name.”

  Santiago’s glare likewise went predatory.

  “Lieutenant, how about you get around to stating your business,” Jonathan said.

  “How about you?” Cuervo said to Jonathan. “What is your name?”

  “I imagine it’s just about what you think it is,” Jonathan said. “You have no cause to board this vessel. I did not ask for help, and I have now declined your offer of it. Seems to me it’s about time for you to move on.”

  “Why were you in such a hurry to leave Mexican waters?”

  “We’ve got a fast boat, and I was homesick.”

  “I think you are smuggling drugs,” Cuervo said.

  “Then why didn’t you stop us hours ago?”

  “It took a while to determine exactly the proper strategy.”

  “And exactly which of these children do you most suspect of being a smuggler?” Jonathan taunted.

  “Perhaps the children are your cargo,” Cuervo suggested. He seemed to like that line. “Human trafficking is a terrible problem, you know.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Jonathan said. What he did hear, however, was the distant sound of a helicopter in flight.

  “I insist on boarding your vessel,” Cuervo said.

  “I insist you stay where you are.” To Davey, Jonathan said, “Take a look at the source of that engine noise, will you? Tell me what you see.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Cuervo said.

  “No, sir, I am not.”

  Best Jonathan could tell, the Mexicans had played their bluff to ground. They had no probable cause to board the boat in the middle of international waters, and Jonathan had said nothing that would even imply permission. With this many witnesses, a major violation of international law would be tough to cover.

  “It’s a Coast Guard helicopter from the good old U.S. of A,” Davey said softly.

  “Go ahead and activate your distress beacon,” Jonathan said.

  Cuervo tapped one of his men on the shoulder. In Spanish, he said, “Mr. Martin, it is my assessment that this vessel is in critical distress, and we will be doing the only decent thing by taking them in tow. Secure a line to their bow and—”

  Jonathan couldn’t hear what Cuervo heard through the earpiece from his radio, but judging from the way his head snapped up to scan the sky, it had everything to do with the approaching Coast Guard chopper.

  Cuervo set his jaw, then settled his shoulders. “Never mind, Mr. Martin,” he said. “It seems that the help these people need has already arrived.” To Jonathan: “Have a nice day.”

  “And you, Lieutenant.”

  “I say eat shit and die,” Boxers mumbled.

  “Go to hell,” Cuervo said.

  Boxers scowled. “Jesus, is my whispering really that loud?”

  “Will somebody tell me what just happened?” Jesse said.

  “It’s complicated,” Jonathan replied. “Suffice it to say that I have an important friend who made a few phone calls for me. Those Mexicans, who more than likely would cover the cartels’ ass for anything they wanted to do, had specific orders not to harm us.”

  “So, what was that that just happened?”

  “That was them trying to bait us into giving them just cause.”

  The helicopter, which Jonathan recognized as an MH-60, had clearly acquired them and was flying a steady course in their direction. Jonathan had always admired the Coasties’ orange-and-white color scheme, but it had never looked as beautiful as it did right now.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Jonathan said. “Who wants to go to America?”

  * * *

  Jesse watched in awe as the big chopper flared to a hover just inches above the water while a team of rescue swimmers floated a raft onto the water and then shuttled the kids, a couple at a time, from the SeaVee to the chopper’s waiting side door. They took extra care with the wounded boys, and within just a few minutes, only Scorpion and Big Guy remained on the boat with Davey and him.

  “Hey, Scorpion,” Jesse said, drawing the man’s attention. “Why didn’t we call the cavalry a long time ago?”

  “We needed to get as close as we could to the U.S. coast,” Scorpion explained. He and his friend had redonned all their military shit. “If we had pressed the distress button too soon—before the U.S. could get to us first—then the Mexicans would have had first dibs on us.”

  “Is this also the work of your important friend?” Davey asked.

  Scorpion gave a sly smile. “No, this is just Uncle Sam answering a citizen’s call for help.”

  “So what happens to this boat when we get on the helicopter?” Jesse asked.

  Big Guy grunted a chuckle. “You’re not going to like this part,” he said.

  “You’re not getting on the chopper,” Scorpion explained. “There’s a fuel tender on its way to give you a hand.”

  “And then what?” Davey asked.

  Scorpion said, “Chief, you know the Squirrel House, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Davey said.

  “Wait, I don’t,” Jesse said. “What’s the Squirrel House?”

  “It’s a place along the coast where things and people disappear,” Davey said.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Scorpion explained, “There’s a dock there.”

  “I’ve been to it,” Davey said.

  “Good. They’re waiting for you. Just park the boat and walk awa
y. It’ll be taken care of.”

  “What does taken care of mean?” Jesse asked.

  Scorpion smiled. “For the short term, it means stay the hell out of Mexico for a while.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Jonathan and Gail rode together with Irene in the back of the director’s vehicle. She’d traded her normal Suburban for this stretch limo, presumably so they could chat face-to-face while they drove the short distance from FBI headquarters to the Capitol Building.

  “So, are you two going to be a couple again?” Irene asked with a grin.

  “Jesus, Wolfie,” Jonathan said.

  “For now, I’m just switching some of my time back to the . . . shall we say, more interesting part of the business,” Gail said. “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you did not bring up the other part.”

  “I just wanted to see Digger blush,” Irene said. “What do you hear from the kids you rescued?”

  “The seriously wounded one, Tomás, seems to be on the route to recovery. Surgery was only forty-eight hours ago, but the docs are good, and they say he should be fine.”

  “And the others?”

  “Father Dom is working on it,” Jonathan said. “He’s pulling strings and calling in favors to get the younger ones placed in good foster homes. We’ve vectored the older ones to high-end residential schools. There’ll be counseling waiting for them.”

  “Except for the girlfriend,” Gail prompted.

  Jonathan smiled. “Yeah, except for the one named Angela. You’d have to shoot her to get her to leave Tomás’s side. Those two are both fifteen going on forty.”

  Irene didn’t look satisfied. “I hate seeing the little ones in foster care. It’s such a crapshoot.”

  “Dom will stay on top of it,” Jonathan assured.

  Irene thought on it. “Tell you what,” she said. “When you know where they’ve settled, let me know, and I’ll pull some strings of my own to make sure their local Child Protective Services pays proper attention.”

  “Thank you for that, Wolfie. I kinda came to like those little crumb crunchers.”

  Irene said, “Digger Grave, do I hear a parental instinct under that gruff exterior?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “See how red he turns?” Irene teased.

  “Enough about making me squirm,” Jonathan said. “What’s our plan of attack for Senator Clark?”

  “We don’t have a plan,” Irene said. “You’re just coming along to watch. I’ll walk into his office and arrest him personally. I’ve got other agents already there, waiting for me.”

  “Perp walk?” Jonathan asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Irene said with a grin.

  “And you’re confident you’ve got enough for a conviction?” Jonathan asked. “President Darmond is going to come at you hard. He’s pretty protective of his party members.”

  “Between what we’ve learned from your man Dawkins and Raúl Nuñez, we’ll nail him to the wall. Certainly on the drug charges. Our shit’s a little weaker when it comes to Marlin Bills’s murder. I’m not sweating it. If we get only one life term instead of two, I can live with that.” She shifted her gaze to Gail. “By the way, how did you find Mr. Nuñez after you’d told me he was dead?”

  “Turns out he was hiding,” Gail said. “And he was good at it. When I got the call from his son, Hector, I almost fell over. And about Hector . . .”

  “I don’t know,” Irene said. “He suborned a lot of bad stuff. I’m going to have a hard time letting him skate.”

  “So, you’re going to charge him?” Jonathan asked.

  “When I said I don’t know, that’s what I was referring to,” Irene said.

  “And what about Nicole Alvarez?” Gail asked. “How’s the search for her coming?”

  “Not well,” Irene said. “She’s good at what she does. Now you’ve got a bad actor on the loose, with a vendetta against you.” Irene extended her hand across the space that separated them. “Welcome to the club.”

  Gail shook the hand and chuckled. “What’s the sense of living if it’s boring, right?”

  The main entrance to the Beaux-Arts Russell Senate Office Building lay on Constitution Avenue, adjacent to the Capitol Building, and unlike regular citizens, who were made to park in East Nowhere when visiting their representatives, the director of the FBI and her passengers got to drive right up to the door. Out on the sidewalk, three agents stood in Windbreakers with the famous FBI legend across their shoulders in yellow.

  “You make them wear coats in this heat?” Jonathan said.

  “You’ve got to look the part,” Irene said. She nodded to the two similar jackets that lay folded on the seat. “Just remember, you’re not to do anything. Just watch and do the happy dance inside.”

  Jonathan helped Gail maneuver into her Windbreaker and then donned his own.

  Irene smacked her thighs. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go bag us a senator.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Nothing happens in my life without my lovely bride and best friend at my side. Joy, you make every day worth getting up for. I love you.

  Chris Gilstrap, I am so proud of you. You impress me more with every step you take.

  I imagine that most authors would agree that research is among the most interesting aspects of what we do. I am grateful to Hunter Barrett, the sales and service guy at SeaVee Boat Sales, for introducing me to the details of that amazing machine.

  David Kentner, Ted Waggoner, Claude Berube, Jeff Berkin, and Scott Horne took time from their busy schedules to help me with some of the finer points of maritime law, and I am deeply appreciative.

  In April of 2016 I got to walk in Jonathan Grave’s shoes for a week at Gunsite Academy in Paulden, Arizona, where I took an outstanding course called The Evolution of Shooting, sponsored by BixPros. Denise Bixler ran the show, which featured an amazing lineup of instructors. Steve Tarani taught knife skills, Rob Leatham ran the pistol course, and Chris White was our carbines instructor. Amazing class from an amazing faculty. Throughout the year, Jeff Gonzalez, president of Trident Concepts, LLC, always takes my calls to answer the technical questions that can only be answered by those who’ve been there. Thanks to all of you.

  For over six years now, I’ve been privileged to participate in a monthly master class in fiction, thanks to my friends in our writing group, which we have christened the Rumpus Writers. Art Taylor, Alan Orloff, Ellen Crosby, and Donna Andrews, you all make me a better writer.

  Jeffery Deaver and Reavis Wortham, you are my brothers from different mothers, and I am deeply grateful for your ongoing friendship and advice. A special thanks to Rev for giving Final Target an early read while it was still in manuscript form.

  While my job is to write books, the job of making them successful falls to my publisher, and no one does that job better than the good people at Kensington/Pinnacle. Michaela Hamilton continues to be my editor, and I think we’re up to something like twelve books together now. Her guiding hand makes every story far better than the one I hand in. Steve Zacharias runs the show, and Lynn Cully is my publisher. Alex Nicholajsen is the tamer of electrons, and together with Vida Engstrand and Morgan Elwell in the publicity department, the whole team works amazingly hard on my behalf. Thank you all so, so much.

  Anne Hawkins of John Hawkins and Associates is not only my agent extraordinaire, but also a dear friend. She believed in my work at a time when few others in the industry did, and she continues to make this literary journey a wonderful trip. Words cannot express my gratitude.

  Don’t miss the next thrilling Jonathan Grave novel by

  John Gilstrap

  SCORPION STRIKE

  Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

  What the hell was that?

  Jonathan Grave’s eyes snapped open. He thought he’d heard gunshots, a quick burst of automatic weapons fire, distant but distinctive. Perhaps he’d been dreaming, but—


  There it was again, and it was definitely gunfire. A sustained burst this time, and accompanied by screams.

  “Gail,” he said. “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”

  She lay with her head on his chest and was slow to respond.

  “Come on, Gail. Wake up. Somebody’s shooting.” As he spoke, he slid out from under her, and she stirred.

  At the third ripple of gunfire, she was wide awake. As she sat up, the covers fell away from her breasts and she moved quickly to cover them. Jonathan shot to his feet and darted naked to the sliding glass door that served as their window onto the beach. Out beyond the glass and the low hedge that surrounded their patio, everything looked normal in the silver light of the moon. It cut a brilliant slice across the calm waters, only to be lost in the rolling luminescence of the waves breaking against the white sand.

  “What do you see?” He could hear her rising and dressing behind him.

  “Nothing, yet,” he said. “But that was definitely gunfire.” He unlocked the slider and pulled it open.

  “Whatever it is, I think pants and shoes would be a good idea,” Gail said. She’d pulled herself into the cream-colored shorts and pink blouse she’d worn to dinner.

  Jonathan looked down at himself. She had a point. He locked the door again. “Come over here and keep an eye out,” he said. As she moved into his place, he padded quickly across the bedroom into the massive walk-in closet where he’d hung his khaki 5.11 pants and golf shirt. He wasn’t much for shorts.

  “Talk to me,” Jonathan said as he felt his way along the hanging clothes in the dark. Under the circumstances, turning on a light was a non-starter. He heard more gunfire in the distance. Single shots this time, but they sounded closer than before.

  “I don’t see anything,” Gail said. “But it sounds like they’re working up this way, one bungalow at a time.”

  The Crystal Sands Resort was as high-end as a beach getaway could be, and Jonathan had chosen the bungalow farthest from the noise and the light of the clubhouse. The surf rolled 150 yards from their deck at low tide and about a hundred yards closer when the Moon pulled it nearer to shore. On the opposite side of the building—officially the front, he supposed—their ornate wood and etched glass door was separated from the steep sloping jungle by only an access road and another twenty yards of well-groomed undergrowth.